


The Trap-Door Lover

by madame_faust



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: What if the Daroga never found the mysterious masked magician in Nizhny Novgorod? What if Erik never got a commission to assist in the construction of the Opera Garnier?





	The Trap-Door Lover

The former chief-of-police of the province of Mazandaran was installed on a respectable little street in a respectable little corner of Paris. But even respectable streets, as well he knew, could be rife with the criminal element - even moreso than the run-down areas of the city. After all, the poor had nothing worth stealing.

The greatest things of value he'd taken as part of his impromptu emigration were his head (mercifully still attached to his shoulders) and a particularly devoted manservant. There were other, more materially valuable things as well, secreted away in the lining of coat pockets, sewn into mattresses, hidden in a curiously dusty samovar. Obvious places.

Inquiries were sent round, as well as a brief, impersonal note to the landlord. A thousand apologies for any clanging and hammering on the second floor; it was only some furniture that wanted assembling.

The workman who arrived on his doorstep early one pale autumn morning came highly recommended for his skill, his cleverness and, most of all, his discretion. Discretion was of the utmost importance, naturally, and the former chief-of-police agreed to hire him out for a handsome sum, conspicuously high for a few household renovations.

He was no fool. If he had been, he wouldn't have been lucky enough to escape Persia with both his manservant and his head. In addition to being a former chief-of-police and current evader of the Shah's justice, he took all necessary precautions. When the bell rang sharply, a piercing cry over the birdsong outdoors, he placed a small revolver in his jacket pocket; he could be discreet as well.

Darius opened the door and there was a pause, the polite greeting stuttering in his mouth. The former chief-of-police felt the reassuring press of cold metal in his pocket and strode toward the door just as Darius manfully renewed his good-morning and thank-you-for-coming-won't-you-come-in-sir?

There was nothing at all remarkable about the workman who stepped over the doorstep, other than the fact that he removed his hat as he did so, for he was of such a height that the doorframe would have knocked it clean off. The fingers that held the hat were remarkably long and thin, noticeable even through the gloves that he wore, matching a lanky frame. They were likely bone-white, matching the scalp revealed when the hat was removed. What dark hair remained upon the man's head was neatly combed back, though it was scarce, not usual for a man approaching middle-age.

But though the former chief-of-police did not lose his composure as his manservant had, his jade green eyes narrowed when he looked toward the man's face. Well, honestly, now. There was discretion and there was pantomime; a white mask shielded the workman's face from view, covering the lot from brow to chin, save for a small, square space revealing thin lips, pressed together in an expression that might have been bored, irritated, or wryly amused. With the rest of the face covered it was impossible to tell.

"Monsieur Agha?"

The former chief-of-police had underestimated Darius's fortitude. It was not the sight of the mask that discomfited him, but the voice for so too he found himself at a loss for words. When he enjoyed the favor of the royal family, he had been permitted to partake in some of the court entertainments. Dancers, singers, trained animals, magicians, any sort of wonder for the eye to behold, the ear to hear, the brain to decipher, the soul to tremble and marvel at, he thought he'd seen them all, had developed what the French called l'ennui for acrobats, tame tigers, fireworks displays, and public executions. Yet two words from that masked stranger's mouth briefly robbed him of his senses. _Nothing_ he had ever heard compared to the beauty of that man's voice.

The thin lips twitched slightly. _Wry amusement_ , his brain supplied. Yet his mouth would not reply.

"Unless, you are not Monsieur Agha," the man spoke again. "And I've come to the wrong house. In which case, I'm terribly sorry to have troubled you and I'll be on my way."

The hat was replaced. The head inclined on the scrawny neck. In point of fact, he was _not_ 'Monsieur Agha', a nonsense name he'd scrawled on his forged emigration papers when he was feeling particularly clever and pleased with himself.

"You've come to the right place," the former chief-of-police managed, just as his visitor was about to see himself out the door. "Monsieur Schulz?"

Another twitch of the mouth and the former chief-of-police was completely convinced on two points. Point the first - this man _was_ terribly amused by the events of the morning. Point the second - he was no more Monsieur Schulz than _he_ was Monsieur Agha.

The masked man extended his long, narrow right hand to briefly shake the hand of the former chief-of police. The expression on the mouth faded into neutrality - ah, not quite. Lips pressed together, making them whiter than they already were. Whatever did that mean?

But he was not given the chance to ponder it for once the masked man let his hand drop it was all to business. What did Monsieur Agha require his services for?

Just a small modification to the home, the former chief-of-police explained. Nothing noticeable. Just a place to conceal some personal affects he'd just as soon not have on display. He thought a little hiding place under the floorboards, concealed by a rug - 

But that beautiful voice cut in and for once in his life, he was pleased to be interrupted. No, no, the masked man shook his head, shrugging out of his greatcoat, handing Darius his hat, squinting quizzically about the hall. No, that would _never_ do.

"You might as well ask me to install a false bottom in a trunk," the masked man groused, his vanity insulted. "Might I be permitted a look-round? Unless you insist upon being robbed after you've paid me a good deal of money to ensure the opposite outcome?"

The former chief-of-police did permit him his look-round, though he followed him from room to room. Of course he did. Only a fool would turn his back upon a man who knew he had been contracted to conceal something of great value. Besides, the masked man had an endearing habit of muttering to himself as he thought, which gave the former chief of police ample opportunity to enjoy his lovely voice.

Something jostled loose in his memory, orders given out to fetch a remarkable someone, with a golden throat and countenance dark and repulsive as sin. A _jinn_ from a traveling fair.

No. He shook his head and the vague memory evaporated like smoke. No. Long ago and far away and too much of a coincidence to be believed. 

The masked man made a full circuit of the property, supposing rightly that the items of value must be concealed well, but also accessible at short notice. 

The addition of a ceiling rose to a light fixture in the dining room was his solution. Elegant, but ordinary. A trap-door, of sorts. Accessible by using the stick meant to adjust the gas to open a lever concealed amid the plaster. 

It would take a few days together, the masked man informed him, longer than the single afternoon he had been contracted for. No need to increase the fee; the challenge was its own reward. 

The former chief-of-police agreed, but warily, conscious of the fact that the additional time might have been an excuse only for the masked man to better explore the house. He made a mental note to request Darius to remove the sapphires from the samovar before their guest returned. That night, he slept upon the divan in the sitting room with the revolver under his pillow, in case the masked man returned under cover of darkness.

Yet he arrived as planned, at ten by the church bells, less formally attired than he had been the day before. No smart business suit now, but a simple shirt and waistcoat under his greatcoat, trousers that were gone thin at the knees. The mask remained and the set of the mouth continued in that wry expression that seemed to be its' natural state.  

The former chief-of-police insisted on remaining to view the work, out of a fascination for the mechanics of it, though he suspected that both of them knew that was a lie. There was a bit of fascination in it, however; the masked man was so tall he needed only a short stool to reach the ceiling of the dining room to begin his work. He'd rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow by midday; in addition to pale skin and sinewy muscle, the former chief-of-police's sharp green eyes picked out scars of vary sizes and causes on his skin. Here a burn. There a knife. There, the old indentations of the teeth of some animal that had come too close. 

As he worked, the former chief-of-police asked him questions. He was good at finding things out, he'd been told. Had the right careworn, affable face, even when he was young. The sort of face that made people tell him things. A trustworthy, amiable face. The face of a doting father, a loyal brother, a kind lover. 

Yet though his questions were answered, he learned almost nothing about the man. Where were his people from?

"Here and there."

Where had he been born?

"Normandy."

How long had he been in Paris?

"Long enough." 

The difficulty would have been maddening, if it wasn't for one amusing observation: What use did a masked man have for a kind face?

Even a direct inquiry about the mask gave almost nothing away. Had he, perhaps, been a revolutionary before he turned to architecture? A victim of the shelling during the fretful time of the Commune? 

The wry half-smile widened to an unsettling grin. The masked man's eyes - a curious yellow shade that the former chief-of-police had originally taken for brown - shone down upon him, though their gaze seemed pitying rather than malevolent.

"No," he replied and hesitated, seeming to wonder whether or not he ought to proceed. He decided for it, a tone of something showmanlike entering his voice. "Nothing so mundane. Only God Himself could have fashioned something so grotesque. Would you like to see?"

Looming over him as he was, the masked man pinched a corner of the mask with a wrench he was holding, as though he meant to tear it free like a loose floorboard. Suddenly, images of wriggling worms, scuttling beetles and creeping spiders superimposed themselves over the sight of the man before him and the former chief-of-police shook his head and said that was quite alright. He'd rather not. 

The grin faded and the man shrugged, "Just as you like."

Only one of his probing questions seemed to strike a nerve, made him clench his fists and turned the honey-sweet voice sour.

Did he have a wife?

"No." He gritted out, eyes on the rose he was replastering into place. "No wife."

Disfigured, then. From birth, probably. A strange, solitary figure with a strangely beautiful voice and talented hands with an unlawful streak running through him. The former chief-of-police had seen it all before, of course. Ugliness. Beauty. Skill. Criminality. But never presented in such a mysterious package before. It was a dangerous combination; it threatened to turn his purposeful questioning and suspicious attention into genuine curiosity and true admiration. 

It was at the end of the first week they spent together that the masked man asked him his first question (aside from inquiring whether he might wash the plaster from his hands in the kitchen sink, a request immediately granted). "Do you play?"

The masked man's yellow eyes were fixed on the piano in the sitting room. Darius had been handing him his coat and hat and shook his head at once, before he belated realized the question was not directed at him. 

"No," the former chief-of-police shook his head. "It was here when we took ownership of the place. It would be an unnecessary expense to remove it. Do you play?"

The masked man did not answer. He approached the piano and lifted the lid, the hinges squeaking in protest at being moved. He pressed a long white finger to a key in the center of the piano - then visibly winced. 

"Not on an instrument so badly out of tune," the masked man replied, replacing the lid. "I'll tune it for you - no additional cost."

It was on his lips to protest, to say that it really wasn't necessary, no one in the household could play...but that was not what he said. "You're a piano-tuner, now? And an architect. A world traveler. A musician, as well, I take it? Quite the jack-of-all-trades, Monsieur - "

"Erik." The masked man interrupted, those yellow eyes boring into him like one of the tools he'd used to drive holes into the ceiling. "You may call me, Erik."

That likely wasn't his real name. Something about the look in the eyes, half-defiant, half-pained, made him think that it was not. 

"Very well," he replied, extending his hand as though they were making introductions all over again. This time he did not lie, "You may call me Dalir."

The masked man - _Erik_ \- persisted in returning, even after the hidey-hole in the ceiling had been created and its contents housed. First, he tuned the piano - and performed an impromptu concert for Dalir and Darius that led to stunned silence, followed by as rapturous an applause as four hands could create. Erik seemed pleased by the attention, however small the audience. Then, when Dalir was concerned they'd finally see the back of him, he paused in the doorway, head cocked toward the kitchen. A leaky sink. 

"You don't hear it?" he asked, pushing past Dalir to point an accusing finger toward the incessant drip-drip-drip of the faucet - a faucet which he could swear had been tight as a drum only that morning. Ah well. These things did happen. 

And so Erik returned, a plumber this time, to fix the leak. Then to shore up a few loose uprights on the banister. And to replace the rusting metal fixtures on the window boxes on the upstairs windows. 

The weather was colder now, and Dalir had no intention of using those window boxes when the last of the winter frost thawed away in the new year. But he raised no objection when Erik insisted on just one more improvement. It gave him pleasure to see him come in the mornings, to hear his sharp rap upon the door rather than the keening of the bell. Darius had stopped answering entirely for his master always managed to beat him to the task. Such a blatant display of regard was unwise, Dalir knew, but he couldn't help it. Erik's abrupt arrival into his life had shaken something loose in him, some foreign feeling he'd thought he'd buried long ago beneath court politics and unrisings and escape: hopefulness. Knowing he had something - some _one_ \- to look forward to, rather than something to run away from.

The samovar being free to be put to use for its proper purposes resulted in invitations to tea, though Dalir quickly discovered Erik preferred strong black coffee and instructed Darius to brew it for him. They had no wine or other spirits in the house, so Dalir had no way to tempt him to stay in the evenings - except by making a request that he sit at the piano. He went to all the trouble to tune it so it _must_ be played. 

The breadth of his musical knowledge exceeded his impressive grasp of home maintenance. Dalir frequented the opera for he was fond of music, despite his lack of personal talent, and Erik played him countless arias - by request, with not a scrap of sheet music in sight. It was a wonder their paths had never crossed, surely Dalir would have noticed a tall, masked man even in the usual crowds at the Garnier. But when he asked, Erik smiled his crooked smile and shook his head.

"I bear them a grudge," he explained, plinking out a careless melody on the keyboard, not one Dalir recognized. "I threw my hat in as a contractor when the plans to build a national theatre were announced. I was denied. You'll find me at the Lyrique, Comique, Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin, I have no loyalties...but I bear the Garnier a grudge."

Erik continued playing into the silence that followed. 

"I'll have to reorder my schedule," Dalir replied, eyes lingering on Erik's lithe form, his broad shoulders, his large spider hands, the back of his nearly-bald head. And the white strings, tightly and neatly tied. "To accompany you sometime."

Erik hummed, consideringly, producing a musical sound distinct from the melody he played. "If you'd like."

His hands flitted above the keys, scarcely touching. A soft echo of Mozart wrapped around them both. 

"Do you sing?" Dalir asked, unnecessarily. He must. A musical talent like that, a _voice_ like that. He must sing. It would be a crime not to. 

The music cut out abruptly. No voice. No tune from the piano. 

"Not anymore," Erik replied, not turning to look at Dalir. His eyes were fixed on middle distance. "I've only ever sung for a paying crowd, and I didn't like their response."

"What was - "

"You ask so many _questions_ ," Erik said, his voice no louder - Darius was asleep in his room - but the mere _sound_ was violent and Dalir was suddenly mindful of the revolver, long since removed from his pocket, locked in a cupboard upstairs and foolishly out of reach. "Like a detective. Is that what you are? Some maddening Auguste Dupin from the East - ha! - Dupin the Daroga, come to find me out? Learn all my little secrets? And then what? Hmm? What will become of me when you learn all that you want to know?"

Still he had not turned. Still his eyes were fixed on some point ahead of him, but his shoulders were heaving, his hands clenched in the same manner as they had been when Dalir asked him whether or not he'd ever had a wife. 

Dalir of Mazandaran, the former chief-of-police, had known dangerous men. In some circles he himself was counted a dangerous man. And he recognized that he sat in the company of a dangerous man. Yet he rose from his comfortable armchair to stand at the side of the enigma sitting at the piano. Close enough to touch. To kill. Or - well. Close, anyway.

Erik's eyes flickered up at him warily behind the eyeholes of the mask. They were dark in that light - the rich brown Dalir thought he saw that first morning. The exposed skin of his chin and hands were a sickly jaundiced yellow by contrast. 

"What will you do," Erik continued, voice softer now, but no less dangerous, "when there are no more holes to plug up, no more trap-doors to cut into your ceilings, no more rusty hinges to replace? What will you do when I leave you as I found you? Alone, with your secrets?"

Dalir did not answer. Instead, he asked another question. "What did they do? Those people who heard you sing?"

Erik held his gaze steady, his voice dropping to a whisper so that Dalir had to incline his ear to hear him.

"At first, many things that people do when they are moved by something beautiful. They might applaud. Or gasp. Or laugh. Or weep. That didn't trouble me. It was what they did _after_ that...became intolerable. With time."

Dalir leaned closer still. "What did they do?"

"Why, don't you know, Daroga?" Erik laughed himself, mirthlessly, a dark chuckle like the churning of some evil thing buried in the earth. "They _screamed_. Only God Himself could have fashioned something so grotesque. Would you like to see?"

One of Erik's hands rose to remove the mask. Dalir caught it in his own hand, the fingers shorter, rougher, but they encircled Erik's thin wrist like a manacle. Erik's eyes flashed and he brought his other hand up, striking quick, like an asp, long yellow fingers, squeezing, wrenching, about to break his wrist with practiced ease -

Dalir of Mazandaran, the former chief-of-police, a dangerous man, used to the company of dangerous men, could not say at first what drove his action. Not an act of defense, nor one of calculated manipulation. Perhaps an idée fixe, as the French would say. For so long, all he'd known of Erik was his mouth. The nearly non-existent shape of his thin lips. The only part of his face, apart from his flashing yellow eyes, that he could see. That he could read with any accuracy. His one point of vulnerability, as the old policeman saw it.

In a perverse way, it made sense that this was his route of attack. When he could feel Erik's grip tighten, feel the pressure below his hand turn to pain, he drove forward with the only weapon he had at his disposal.

He kissed him.  _Kissed_ him, kissed _Erik_ , an ungainly press of mouths. It seemed that Dalir had managed to find one art at which Erik was not practiced.

The pain in his wrist was gone. Erik's previously serpentine precision of movement had been replaced with trembling. When Dalir drew back he saw hot, ashamed tears rise in his yellow eyes. 

"Play, won't you?" Dalir asked him breathlessly. "And...sing for me."


End file.
